Start: Dekalb Market, Flatbush Ave. and Willoughby St.
On-in: Washington Commons
Hare: Just Kyle
This particular hash was somewhat sparsely attended. The number of bag hags roughly approximated the number of hashers who made up the pack. Reasons for this abounded: too much hashing in Jersey and Manhattan on the days prior, racing and/or cheering tiredness (here's looking at you, Eager for Beaver), a lull between theme hashes (caught between the zombie hash and the BEERd and MUSThash), the impending onslaught of calories come Thanksgiving, a true passion for bag transport. At any rate those few, those brave few who decided hashing would be worth the risks, came to Dekalb Market, and didn't drink the alcoholic hot chocolate that wasn't there. They took off in search of marks, which led them through alleys, by closed school areas, to a rooftop drink check at the hare's place (there were tales told of a mark so ingeniously placed, it could only be seen from the roof), and thankfully, to the bar. Phew.
We hashers rocked the back left seating area and portion of the backyard closest to the bar's interior with a degree of zest Washington Commons hadn't seen since the Clinton years. After the arrival of our whole two pizza pies, the songs in circle were sung in what can best be described as a 'strong whisper'. It seems that we've gone soft and didn't want to annoy the locals, beyond mucking up their sidewalks and drinking all their beer. At a soft volume, we gave out these down-downs:
Hare: Just Kyle
Visitor from Australia, military type I believe, which is to say sorry, mate, I forgot your name
Cheeky Bastard: marathoner (first inaugural Brooklyn, baby!)
Just Miguel: too dressed up to hash. In the spirit of our new shoe policy, perhaps Miguel should've been required to drink out of his suit.
Hare: no hot chocolate left to go with booze (Kahlua). So you admit there was booze!
Barnacle: tore off at the start. There's no PR-ing at the hash…unless you are Pimpy and Just Adam, who according to NYC #1455's write-up, did. I'm at a loss for words, and was at a loss for beer once cash ran out. 'Til next time, then.